


biting your tongue, licking the wounds

by skyeofskynet



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Missing Scene, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4732832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyeofskynet/pseuds/skyeofskynet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt: Carver's first birthday without Bethany, during first year in Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	biting your tongue, licking the wounds

He forgets.

The time seems to be running differently here, and he has been a country boy his whole life, more used to guessing the time by phenological events than following a proper calendar their mother insisted they knew. He worked in the fields long enough to get used to living in the rhythm of changes, and there's nothing that actually changes in Kirkwall, yet the streets are still so unfamiliar, unlike the feeling of mud under his bare feet.

("Are you sure he's not of elven blood?", father often joked, and Carver actually felt offended, as much as an eight-year-old could, because of course he wasn't. Beth hated mud, so she couldn't be elven, and they were the same until they weren't.)

He forgets, so when mother calls him to Gamlen's poor excuse of a kitchen, he's surprised by the plate full of freshly baked pastries.

"Can we even afford that?" he asks, taking his place behind the table, and mother smiles at him like he said something silly. 

"It's for your birthday, honey."

“Oh.”

“Come on. Eat before your sister is back and claims the rest.”

Mother doesn’t have to tell him twice, because growing up with two siblings made him used to eating everything put in front of him fast, and at least now he just has to fight Marian and her mabari, and―

Mother is still talking and putting more pastries into his plate, and Carver remembers how Beth used to steal his share, even if she preferred the ones stuffed with marmalade and―

―this is wrong.

The food is suddenly too thick to swallow, and he realizes that mother is actually talking about Bethany (my poor, beautiful baby), and―

―this is so very wrong.

He swallows and almost chokes, then gets up too fast and the chair lands on the floor with a loud thud. Mother stops talking to finally look at him.

She doesn’t do that often, he realizes, she doesn’t look at him these days, and does she see Beth every time she tries? They weren't even that much alike, different eyes, and Beth's face was more rounded, softer, fuller, and he was taller and―

"Carver."

"I... need to go."

He's out before somebody can stop him. 

 

By the time the evening comes he’s very drunk and still sitting alone, because apparently every girl and boy in the Blooming Rose now avoids the drunk ones, or maybe just the poor ones, he’s not sure. Still the ale is way better here than in the Hanged Man and nobody spits into a cup before pouring a drink.

The woman sitting next to him probably came to the same conclusion, since she’s drinking her third cup by now, even if she had at least four propositions since she came in. He’s surprised when she finally speaks to him. 

“Celebrating or mourning?”

He considers ignoring her for a moment, but she hardly seems the easily neglected type. 

"It's my birthday."

"Oh. Waiting for pity fuck then? Not gonna get it here. Madame Lusine charges fifty silver for simple snogging and it’s only when you ask nicely. Which I do."

"I... no."

"Not a happy birthday then, huh?"

"No, it's fucking not."

I buried my twin a few months ago, he wants to say, except he didn't, there was no time, so he carried her body over the edge of the road, and he only had time to cover her face with that silly neckerchief she kept wearing before he had to go, hoping that nobody would loot her body later, because that’s exactly what they were doing on their way up that mountain, stealing everything they could from the dead.

(He still has that whetstone somewhere on the bottom of his trunk.) 

I'm not whole, he's drunk enough to admit it in his own head but not out loud, because how can you be whole if you were always a half of something, and there's a hole to fill and he doesn't know how―

Except he's not just a half of something for the first time ever and―

―this is so―

(―good)

―wrong.

She laughs, then she leans on his arm, her body warm, so warm and soft in the right places and he's actually blushing, her cleavage far too exposed. 

"I don't work here."

Her hand follows the curves of the muscles on his arm.

"But for you, sweet thing, I may make an exception."

He looks again at her. She’s older than him, probably of Rivaini origin and her white clothes don’t leave much to imagination. From up close he can see freckles on her dark skin. There’s a heavy gold choker on her neck and suddenly he wants to see her without it. 

"Let me make this day better, birthday boy."

“It’s rather hard task.”

“I am good at dealing with hard things,” she says, and he actually laughs. 

“Hey, you forget what you want to forget, and I have my fun. It's a win-win situation."

She finishes her ale in one gulp and gets up. 

"Are you going?"

She doesn't need to ask twice.

 

Marian is waiting for him at the door, her arms crossed, her mabari at her feet, and it probably notified her that Carver's back, what a traitor.

"Mother was worried." 

“Yeah. I know.”

He tries to pass her by, but it’s not easy to accomplish while she has Barkspawn at her disposal, his skinny sister and her big dog. 

“Where were you?”

“Dunno. Celebrating?”

“You’re drunk.”

“That I am.”

“Carver.”

“Listen, it was… Can I just go to sleep?”

He’s more than glad when she steps back to let him in. He doesn't even take his boots off, just heads to the room he's sharing with his sister, when her voice stops him halfway.

“Hey, Carver.” 

He looks over his shoulder. Marian is busy petting Barkspawn’s head.

“Sorry I wasn’t around for today.”

“Yeah.” I am sorry too I guess. “Whatever.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Emily Palermo's poem [All Along, The Mother Weeping](http://starredsoul.tumblr.com/post/124529471992/biting-your-tongue-licking-the-wounds-and-all)


End file.
